


wandering into the ocean with stones on his feet

by Herewego (Loversarelosers)



Series: I just wanted you to know(that this is me trying) [2]
Category: Saturday Night Live RPF, Weekend Update (SNL)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:48:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loversarelosers/pseuds/Herewego
Summary: Somewhere in between Monday and Sunday, things go in and out of focus.Or, the one where Colin struggles through a bad week.
Relationships: Michael Che/Colin Jost
Series: I just wanted you to know(that this is me trying) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059212
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	wandering into the ocean with stones on his feet

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Colin’s episode on Dax Shepherd’s podcast. Heed the warnings.

He wants to say things start going fuzzy after pitch on Monday, but maybe that’s not true. When he gets all off like this it’s better to stick to facts, pillars he can plant that keep him sane. Things he knows for certain. 

He knows that he wakes up late on Monday morning feeling weird, sleep tugging at his limbs and restlessness fluttering in his chest. He checks the time and curses, but he stays in bed anyway, limbs leaden and mind blank. 

He knows that he makes it to the office later than he should, sweater pulled over his shirt, freezing even in the fall. He picks at a loose thread on his jeans as the elevator dings. 

He knows he wanders into pitch looking just as lost and confused as he feels, because Michael is shooting him a weird look. No one else seems to notice, though, so maybe he’s pulling it together. 

He knows that he’s a step behind today. His brain can’t even register words until half a minute later, like there’s weak signal in his brain. 

He knows that things go fuzzier after pitch. 

Fuzzier, like static on a screen, the fizz and crackle of poor connection. Things are happening around him, he’s even doing things, but he’s a step behind and not quite present, like a lagging monitor. 

It freaks him out, kinda. There’s a stirring in his chest and a constant nagging in his brain that there are things that have to be done and there are people who are counting on you and you aren’t allowed a breakdown and hurry up and, for some reason don’t tell Michael.

But despite his heart fluttering in his chest and the thoughts in the back of his head, his body just doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. His fingers drag over paper like he’s not lifting his hands enough, his grip on pens is weak and his typing his clumsy, he nearly stumbles over his feet and walks into a door. He’s not the most graceful person by any standard, but he just can’t seem to….work today. 

His body is a free agent, untethered by his mind, and this week, his body has decided to be heavy and leaden and exhausted. 

He thinks a good nights sleep might do him some good, or at least alleviate the pull on his eyelids. 

He looks up, neck sore from hunching over at his desk all day. 

Michael’s gone. 

It fills him with concern that’s likely unprecedented. His heart races as he whips out of phone with uncoordinated hands and calls Michael. 

“Colin?”

“Michael?” His voice seems to be coming from him but sounds foreign and odd to his ears. “Where are you?”

There’s a pause and he counts Che’s breathing, 4 inhales and exhales, slow and sleepy.

“I’m at home.” Michael sounds calculated.

“Home? Why?” He waits for Michael’s answer. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. 

“I told you I was leaving, remember?”

He thinks. He can vaguely picture a Michael shaped blob closing the door. 

“Colin?”

He hums a noncommittal acknowledgment. 

“You do remember, right? I left nearly six hours ago.”

He makes the same noise. He can vaguely remember Michael leaving, but nothing is quite lining up. 

“You’re not still there are you?”

He shakes his head, clearing the haze that’s settled over his brain. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

Michael scoffs softly on the other end. “Jesus, man, look at the time.”

He blinks at the computer screen, waiting for it to shift into focus. Shit. When did it become 7 AM?

“You feeling alright, Jost? You’re being...really fucking weird man, I’ll tell you that.” 

His breath catches in his throat and he swears Michael can hear it. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Sorry.” And he hangs up the phone immediately before he can count another breath. 

He stares at a smudge on his desk. Jesus, maybe he needs to sleep. 

He glances back at the clock. Somehow fifteen minutes have passed. He feels vaguely sick thinking of how easy it was to lose time. 

And then, for reasons that feel far beyond him at the moment, he goes back to writing. 

—-

He doesn’t sleep, even though he probably could make time. He lies when Michael asks at 1 PM, says he got a few hours in the morning. It’s probably crystal clear by the smudges under his eyes and his demeanor that it’s false but Che doesn’t push it. 

He prints out his sketches. He’s worried that he’s written down gibberish, random words and phrases that have no jokes or correct grammar. He grins when Michael nudges him with a gentle tease of “Harvard boy”.

When it’s nearly 3 PM, he starts writing with Pete. Pete’s gotten a new tattoo, a little stick figure version of Mulaney on the inner flesh of his right arm. They write, he thinks, for a few hours. Pete’s not giving him a funny look, so he thinks he may be functional enough to pass as a human being. Or maybe Pete is just more understanding of his state. 

Mulaney actually drops by at 5 with coffee, venti and piping hot from the starbucks 30 floors down. John is looking at him in a weird way, a way that Pete doesn’t quite catch on to. He squirms under John’s gaze, sipping coffee like it’s water. 

John pats Pete on the shoulder and leaves quietly, one last glance over to Colin. 

Later, when he goes to the printer across the hall because his ink’s run out, he sees John talking in hushed tones to Michael, gesturing with his hands, eyebrows furrowed, more serious than he usually bothers to be in these offices. The two don’t notice him slip back into his office to finish up with Pete. 

Michael’s absence in their shared office is noticeable after a while. At first, he thinks that Che’s polishing with others. After a while- hours- it just seems like he’s avoidant. 

It makes something ache in his chest. 

He churns out a couple of sketches, nothing absurdly funny. Most will get cut. They aren’t funny sketches, just random words in a formation. Pete had a good weekend update take.

People drop off all the sketches and he combs through them alone. There’s so many this week.

He stares at the gigantic pile of papers on his desk- 60 sketches, 50 unread. It makes something deep in his body ache until it spreads to his skin and bones. This is his job, he should be able to do it. Jesus. 

He stares at words like his brain is miraculously going to start understanding them. 

It’s frustrating as hell at a certain point. His hands dig into his hair, struggling to read a sentence over and over and over. He feels ridiculous. 

There’s no clearing this fog in his head. He’s doing it alone, too. Michael’s nowhere in sight. 

He gets through half the sketches before he has to push away from his desk and drop his head in his hands. His breath is coming a little too quickly and shallowly. He inhales slowly, fighting the lump of emotions blocking his throat. 

Everything feels like too much. He liked it better yesterday, when things didn’t feel like anything at all. 

He swallows, inhales, exhales, swallows, sighs. 

He gets back to reading. 

—-

Michael comes in thirty minutes after his lapse in emotion.

He’s reading through one of Mikey’s sketches, and he’s pretty sure it’s funny. He didn’t like some of the names so he’s crossed them out. His red ink spills like rivers, jagged slashes against the lettering.

Michael is giving him a strange look, and he’s about two second from screaming, asking for answers, asking if something’s written on his face in giant letters. 

And then he feels a hand card through his hair and he just about cries. 

Michael’s fingers run through his hair, ruffling it like he’s a kid. He leans into the touch more than he would like to, relishing in the warmth and comfort and the smell of Michael’s shirt and...

The hand draws away and he’s left feeling just a little colder and just a little more off kilter. He inhales shakily. 

“You didn’t wait for me?” 

He blinks owlishly at Michael’s face, which is marred with slight hurt and more confusion. He’s awfully confused and far too tired for this kind of critical thinking. 

“I thought…” he trails off mid sentence. _I thought you didn’t want to be around me today because I made you upset in some way so I did all the work because my brain feels really fucked up right now._ It sounds ridiculous in his head. He doesn’t bother saying it out loud. 

He shrugs. It takes effort to lift his shoulders. 

“You’re being really weird, dude. You have to like… sleep.” He thinks he nods in agreement, rising unsteadily from his chair, the room spinning. 

“I need to get these sketches over-” Michael is pushing his shoulder down firmly with one hand. 

“I’ll get these sketches over to production. You get some sleep. Deal?”

There’s something serious in Michael’s joking face and tone. He nods. 

He watches hazily as Michael gathers all the sketches into his arms and puts them on his own desk to skim through later. Things have gone a little fuzzy again, maybe, because when he blinks Michael’s gone. 

He stares at the clock. It’s two in the morning. He watches the second hand tick by. 

He vaguely thinks he may be losing his mind. 

—-

Come morning, he’s gotten just a few hours of sleep, the rest of the time spent with his eyes traced ceiling tiles. Waking up makes him want to cry, his chest aching and his brain a hazy, foggy thing. He blinks at the ceiling. The couch isn’t comfortable but it’s fine, and the crick in his neck hurts no more than the ache in his bones. 

It’s 11 AM. He curses, pushing himself to his feet despite the dizziness in his pounding head. He needs some coffee. Or food, his brain supplies, but he feels disgustingly sick, so that’s not going to work. 

He wanders down the hall to the coffee machine, filling a paper cup twice over. He’s not ready for read through by a long shot. He feels gross. He should shower. 

He sips his coffee in silence, until he hears hushed voices down the hallway. It’s Michael and… Seth? Seth’s here? He peers outside the doorway of the break room, watching Michael say something to Seth. 

He’s getting awfully tired of not being included in these secret conversations. 

He downs the last of his coffee and refills the cup, but his hands are shaking and he spills some coffee on the table. Cursing, he grabs a handful of napkins and blots at the growing murky puddle. When he looks up, Seth is standing in the doorway. He throws the clump of soggy napkins in the trash. 

“You look like a mess, man.”

He grabs a few more napkins, wiping the coffee from his hands. The back of his hand is red, he must have spilled coffee on it. He wonders why he didn’t notice, why it doesn’t hurt. 

“Jost?”

He looks up. Seth’s lips are pinched into a frown. He nods. Maybe Seth asked him a question. 

“Colin, have you slept at all?”

He clears his throat, hoarse from disuse. “Yeah..” he tries to continue but is left with silence. There’s not much to say. He knows for a fact that everyone has functioned on less sleep than he’s got this week, so there’s really no need for complaint or inquiry. He can feel piercing eyes staring at him and he throws the rest of the napkins in the trash, the back of his hand an angry burn. It’s fine. 

When he looks up again, Seth’s gone. He can hear steps down the hallway. 

A glance at the clock tells him it’s time for the read through, so he grabs his coffee and wanders back down the hall. His steps are uncoordinated and slow, he feels sticky and gross. He needs to shower, but the thought of leaving, of standing in the elevator, walking to the subway, standing on the train, dragging himself up the steps to his apartment, peeling off his clothes and standing in the shower and coming all the way back- it’s too much. He’s too tired.

There are showers in the dressing rooms two floors down. He should probably do that after the table read. He worries, though, the grime and slime that he feels isn’t dirt, and when the water runs off his shoulders he’ll still feel just as tarnished. 

It’s a stupid thing to be worried about. 

He slides into his seat at the head of the table, combing through his hair with his fingers and adjusting his shirt. Hopefully he doesn’t look quite as disgusting as he feels. 

Michael slips into the seat next to him, stack of sketches for them to share. Michael doesn’t look at him.

He can see Mulaney and Meyers in the back of the room. They’re staring at him. It makes him feel like a little kid, getting observed by older siblings. He feels guilty for something he didn’t even do.

“What happened to your hand?”

He turns. Michael is staring at the pink splotch that wraps around to his palm. He flexes his hand open and closed, watching the skin pull. 

He shrugs. “I spilled some coffee.”

It’s not even a bad burn, and it really doesn’t hurt at all. Michael’s hand grabs his. He wants to fucking- melt or burn or combust or something. Michael’s fingers prod at the skin.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” 

He shrugs. It really doesn’t. “No.” 

Lorne is sliding into a seat next to Michael. He pulls his hand away from Michael’s warm grip, ignoring the stare. He needs to be able to not fuck up this read, not today. 

Lorne clears his throat. “Let’s get started.”

—-

They breeze through about seven sketches before he can tell things are going fuzzy again. Coffee isn’t doing the trick. He stares at a wrinkle on the paper, the dog eared corner, an ink splotch, his hand, the table. His gaze drifts, ears full of cotton.

A hand lands on his knee.

His head snaps up. Everyone’s staring at him. He’s completely clueless. He has no idea- fuck. Fuck. 

His heart is hammering in his chest. His eyes scan their faces- Mikey concerned, Kate and Keenan confused, Pete expectant, eyebrows all furrowed and lips pursed. 

Michael’s hand squeezes his knee and his gaze snaps to brown eyes.

Lorne grumbles something under his breath. “I said, could we move on to the next sketch?”

Oh, oh. He’s supposed to read the next- shit, right. His eyes look over the letters but none of them make words. His face is flushed. Fuck, fuck. It’s so quiet. 

Michael’s hand is still on his knee. Michael clears his throat and begins reading for him. 

He feels like a fucking- shit. Shit. His heart is hammering hysterically in his chest, racing and skipping. He’s fine. 

He inhales, gaze downcast, trying to make sense of the words and letters and sounds. He’s _trying_. He’s trying. 

They get through a few more sketches before it’s weekend update. His heart is still Jackhammering beneath his ribs, and Michael’s hand is still a warm, heavy presence on his thigh. 

He inhales deeply. 

He opens to where his first line is. He hears Lorne read the stage direction. He breathes. This is too much effort for something he’s been doing for six years.

“The president issued a n-” his breath catches. “N-n-ew order that d-” he can’t seem to just- “d-dictates a p-precedent for c-court hearings...”

By the time he finishes his line, to complete, dead, haunting silence, he wants to tear his hair out. Everyone’s staring. He can’t be stuttering like this, stammering over basic words. 

He feels like a kid again, unable to read aloud in class and everyone staring, the teacher writing home to his parents. He feels like the six year old he was, staring at the mirror, practicing how to speak, reciting meaningless passages for hours until his brain felt broken. 

Michael’s reading now, and he loathes the moment it’s his turn again. Michael’s hand squeezes his knee again and he can’t help- he can’t help but wrap his trembling fingers around Michael’s warm, steady ones. 

He feels ridiculous, he feels sick, he feels panicked, he feels empty. He stutters and stammers through the rest of his lines and grips Michael’s hand tight enough to hurt. Michael doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even move except to squeeze back lightly. 

After the excruciating 10 minutes of update material, he can finally, finally relax. He feels vaguely sick and dizzy and under caffeinated, and his heart is still hammering. If Michael’s fingers curled around his wrist, he’s certain that his pulse would be thrumming something alarming. 

He can feel eyes trained on him from around the room, writers and actors and the host and Lorne and John and Seth. It’s fucking humiliating, but he’s not angry or even embarrassed. He’s just- tired. 

He forgot, over the past thirty years, how exhausting stuttering is. There’s a gaping chasm in his chest that feels like the beginnings of a sob but isn’t, because if he could cry out this pain he would have a long time ago. 

He struggles through the rest of the read through, hazy and uncertain about sentences forming gibberish, typed letters blurring into ink blots. He’s not sleepy, but he could sleep for a week. He’s not distracted by anything in particular, only everything and anything that will catch his wandering eyes. 

His fingers are clutching Michael’s underneath the table, grip slack, but he can’t make himself let go. 

He can never quite- 

_Top floor climb the railing, sailing down, a million stories down and they won’t recognize your splatter on the pavement_

Let go. 

It’s… it’s not _fine_. But it’s fine. 

Michael’s hand disappears from his grip and he is left stranded once again, his own island of isolated loneliness, a pocket of an unforgiving universe that surrounds him like a sea. _How easy it would be, he thinks, to walk into the ocean with stones tied to his feet._

He breathes like the tide is coming in, lapping at his toes and nipping at his heels, cold and tempting. The meeting ends. He escapes, ignoring Michael’s fingers gracing over his wrist, ignoring pointed glances and glares. 

And he holds the door close button on the elevator on the way back to his office. 

And he breathes out. The tide’s going out again. 

—-

The view out the window of his and Michael’s shared office is pretty good, a perk of working in Rockefeller center. He watches the people skating outside on the rink. One kid, clad in a bright neon green jacket, has been falling for an hour. He falls and falls and falls, and everyone skates around him. He keeps on getting back up and falling. 

He waits for the kid to give up, lay down on the ice or get off the rink or start crying but nothing happens, the kid just tries and tries. 

It makes his chest ache. 

Michael isn’t back and it’s been three hours. He’s certain he has things to do and he’s done many of them, sorting out sketches, arranging lists. He’s on autopilot, but things are getting done. Things are getting done. He doesn’t need another reason for everyone to be mad at him. 

His face flushes just thinking about the table read. He groans, head dropping into his hands. Jesus. Jesus, he was a mess. He is a mess. 

The door swings open and he raises his head. It takes far too much effort. 

Michael doesn’t go to his desk- no, he marches straight up to Colin, an unreadable look on his face. 

So many questions on everyone’s tongue and nothing ever spills, and he’s left stumbling in the dark, falling like that little kid, over and over, everyone else skating a wide path around him. 

He exhales. He looks at his shoes. 

“Go shower.”

He blinks. That’s not quite what he was expecting. He stares at his shoes for a moment and then nods. He feels disgusting and though he’s sure that it’s not actual grime, it feels filthy. 

He slips past Che, leans against the elevator wall because his legs are threatening to collapse from under him, dizzy and head pounding. He’s pretty sure he has a shirt and jeans in one of the dressing rooms on the way to the showers. 

He hopes there’s not many people on this floor. He doesn’t think he can quite bear another line of questioning. 

His tolerance for existence feels incredibly low. 

—-

When he steps out of the shower, freshly shaved and damp, he doesn’t feel much cleaner. There’s a sinking feeling, a heavy stone in his stomach. He was right, he still feels filthy and uncomfortable even though his skin is clean. 

He tugs his jeans on, cursing under his breath when he sees how loosely they fit around his waist. He presses his palm against the concave where his stomach meets his ribs. He hasn’t eaten. 

He slips his shirt over his arms and his shoulders, muscles rippling and aching and he can feel eyes on the back of his neck. 

He turns, pulling at his shirt, but not before Michael catches a glimpse of his frame, ravaged by three hellish days. 

“What’s going on with you?”

He doesn’t really know. Nothing? Nothing is going on, there’s really nothing to complain about. Nothing has happened to make him feel so—- _so_. 

“-lin? Colin? Colin.”

He blinks. Warm hands rest on his wrist. He exhales. Everything is fine. 

Michael is saying something that gets lost in his head, somewhere between the air and his ears and his brain. His eyes drift over across the wall to the clock. It’s getting late. 

Fingers squeeze at his wrist and his gaze snaps back to Michael. 

“Everyone’s worried about you.”

He doesn’t know what to say. His breath catches on his inhale, the beginnings of a non-word on his tongue. 

Micheal is frowning at him, and something in his chest keeps cracking. He can’t keep- letting people down like this. It’s not- he doesn’t- he doesn’t like letting people down. 

He slips under Michael’s grip and makes his way back to their office, silent and shaking and deaf to protest. 

If he’s stranded on an island, he fears that the water levels are rising. The threat of submersion is growing real, every choice stripped away from him, even how to die. 

So the water laps at his legs, weighing down his clothes, heavy and tugging him down and he thinks that maybe he’d rather drown than drown. Choice or submission. Either way, same ending. 

The elevator rises and he’s tempted- _for only a moment-_ to hit the button for the roof. He shakes his head, trying to clear the thoughts, the haze. 

There’s nothing to run from, but it’s like he’s sprinting, feet falling heavy and he’s waiting to break his ankles and his bones and his face and he- 

The elevator opens and it’s Seth and John, and they spot him and he’s trying to hard not to be rude but they don’t understand he needs to go- he’s trying, he’s trying. 

He ends up in his office, hands shaking, breath coming in too quickly and it’s a petulant thought but he doesn’t want a panic attack right now he’s too tired and he’s too overwhelmed but it doesn’t help and he’s gasping and shaking and he’s _losing his mind_ he _must be._

The water’s rising on this isolated island and he thinks it may be nice to let it wash over him, let it cool his corpse and make him float away. 

——

Michael drops by around one AM, spots him hunched over at his desk, head propped up on his hand. 

He doesn’t have the energy to function but he knows sleep won’t grant him reprieve. 

Nothing seems to make sense, only shapes and sounds move around in the world around him. He feels like he's tripping something serious, or dying, or losing his mind, or having some kind of psychotic episode induced by hallucinogenic mushrooms laced with acid. 

Michael seems displeased, and after the hellish day it’s been, he doesn’t blame him. The read through was a mess and Colin’s left him to do so much work on his own.

His eyes slip closed somewhere around 3 AM. He blinks, blearily staring at the swimming words and letters that line all the tabs he has pulled up. His head is fucking pounding. 

He blinks for a little longer- and feels a warm hand on his shoulder. His eyelids feel heavy and he feels Michael’s hand on his shoulder, a comforting weight. 

And when he falls asleep, dragged over to the couch, Michael next to him, arm slung around his shoulder- he thinks that maybe things will get better in the morning. 

\----

Things don’t get better in the morning. Well, it feels like they will, at first. He wakes up with Michael’s palm flat on his chest, arm wrapped around his shoulder, His head is in the crook of Michael’s arm and shoulder and Michael is fast asleep. 

He’s so close he can see how long Michael’s lashes are, how young he looks asleep, how delicate his fingertips are on Colin’s chest. He breathes in the smell of them. It’s clean. 

And then he actually wakes up. 

He’s asleep on his coworker, albeit friend, (albeit something more), and they have things to do and he still feels like shit. 

He pulls away from Michael, who doesn’t stir. Getting up is the hard part. His head is spinning in circles and the room is too, and everything’s a little static and dark around the edges. He breathes deeply, blinking, trying to clear the stars from his eyes. 

His legs refuse to support his weight and something flutters in his chest and for a moment he thinks he’s going to fall but he rights himself, gripping the back of his chair in a white knocked grip. 

He sighs shakily, weaving past Michael’s long legs, escaping the stuffy office. He sucks in a breath. He had fallen asleep - with Michael - for the first time in a few days, really. Like actual honest to god sleep. 

It didn’t really do anything- he’s still exhausted somewhere deep inside his body, everything seems to slip past him, the worlds gone a little round and upside down- but it was nice to sleep. 

It was nice to sleep with Michael. 

He shakes his aching head. His stomach is a pit of emptiness and nausea, but if he wants to stay on his feet at all he needs to eat. He meanders down the long corridors. No one’s here yet, it’s near six. The light is just starting to pour in through the windows. 

He leans against the wall in the elevator, wiping sleep out of his eyes and trying his best to fix his hair just a little. His hand still has an angry burn on it but he doesn’t really feel it. 

When the doors chimes open he’s weaving through the few people in the lobby, and he’s hit with a blast of cold air when he opens the doors. It’s crisp and cold, makes his nose and cheeks burn, and his breath makes little clouds as he walks to the coffee stand.

The problem arises that he doesn’t want to talk. He can feel it in his throat already, he knows that if he tries to speak he’s going to to stutter over his words. It makes the nausea in his stomach worse.

People pass by, more and more as the day starts. He stands, hands buried in his Jean pockets, freezing cold air, staring at the coffee cart breakfast sandwiches and piping hot coffee. 

And then he turns on his heel and walks right back through the building. 

He feels like there’s a live wire in his heart jump starting his body. The rush makes his hands shake and he squeezes his hands into fists. He realizes he’s thrumming with energy, trembling from his head to his toes. 

He gets to the break room, but there’s no way to get coffee without spilling it. He glanced at the lock, does a double take. Eight? It’s Eight AM? He was outside for two hours? Something sinks in his chest, down, down, down. 

And then things go fuzzy again. 

Time moves in stasis. It’s like he’s walking through gelatin, each step takes too much effort and too much time and it presses his whole body. He sees things like he’s in a time capsule of a fishbowl, people flitting through the sides of his vision. One moment they’re there, the next time he blinks it’s a new blob shaped being. 

His hands write but they don’t work- typing is like running a marathon, and the screen is all blue and blank. He hopes he’s doing things well, but it’s a distant thought and a vague worry. 

People say things to him and he must be responding because when he blink they’re gone and there are more people- or fleshy blobs of clothing staring with wide eyes. 

He blinks. 

He’s alone. 

And he feels like shit. 

And he blinks. 

And he stands. 

And something in his chest squeezes tight, tight, tight. It’s like a snake squeezing his ribs, making it hard to draw a breath, pain overwhelming his sensors and he’s suddenly unable to think, to breathe, to- to- 

And the fluttering increases, over and over and he thinks that this may be it (and maybe that’s alright) and his vision is spotting over and over and suddenly warm hands are wrapping around his waist, and his legs are jelly underneath him and he’s falling- falling

_And there’s nothing but ocean, only light above him through the sparkling water, bubbles shining like diamonds and he can feel weightless under all this water as he drifts gently downwards, down, down._

_And when he sinks to the bottom and watched the sun over the water, bright white and golden around the edges, waves in the murkiness and nothing but water for miles as far as his eyes can see, squeezing his lungs until he has to breathe in._

_Water floods his lungs like an invasion, until there nothing in his body but water- filling this hollow shell with something meaningful and now he can rest, now he can be peaceful and quiet and perfect and fine, basking in the sunlight on his skin._

_And when he’ll decompose eventually, skin splitting at the seams, eaten by some monsters or just some tiny fish, sinking to the sand and his bones will lie, splayed like he’s crucified, arms outstretched and he’s reaching for some God, somewhere, the one his mother told them loved him even though his sins have dirtied this soul- but the water will rush through his body and he’ll be clean, finally._

_And when he’s baptized in these holy waters of death he’ll be reborn again, and this time he’ll be good._

And then he wakes up. 

He’s on the floor of their office and Michael is above him, and it’s like his ears are waterlogged and he can’t hear anything but volume and Michael sees his eyes are slits and suddenly he’s being comforted, soft words rushing over him like the hand feeling through his hair.

And he blinks as the screams continue. 

There’s something heavy on his face, flashing lights around him. A hand is woven in his, tight. 

And he blinks as the sirens continue. 

And he wakes up in an emergency room.

There’s a young woman prodding at his chest. Michael’s in the corner, lips pressed into a fine line. It’s probably best if he doesn’t talk. 

The doctor looks increasingly concerned as the exam continues. She murmurs something at the nurse, who grabs some needles. He’s fucking tired of this. 

“Hey- what’s wrong with him?”

He can hear Michael and the doctor murmuring. He’s really not going to bother paying attention right now. He’s so tired. He hears _arrhythmia_ , _depressed_ , _malnourished_ , _dehydrated_ , and _rest_. And then he tunes it out. 

He blinks, looks at the clock. He’s losing time again, much more. It’s one in the morning. 

He stares at the ceiling tiles. There are seven tiles in this row and twelve across the column. 

There’s something in his arm, making his blood run cool. 

The paper is crinkly under his hands he cringes at the sound as he shifts. 

“Have you had suicidal thoughts over the past two weeks?”

He stares at the ceiling tiles, like he can change the number of them by sheer willpower. He shouldn’t lie to doctors. His mom is a doctor, she’d never let him lie during an appointment. He swallows. 

“Yeah.” He can feel Michael’s eyes on him, and he takes a glance. There’s something cracking in Michael’s face, some emotion unknown. He goes back to staring at the ceiling. 

“Do you have a history of depressive episodes?”

He can hear her writing something down, the scratchy pen on the paper. All those time in college, the times over the past few years- long spans of time and space where he felt empty and cold and fuzzy and off. His eyes trace the border of the ceiling lights, staring at the long lines of connectors between the panels. 

“Yeah.”

She nods. She’s young, maybe his age or younger, hair tied back sleekly and dark eyebrows furrowed as she scribbles something down. 

“Do you have active plans to kill yourself?”

He stills. He thinks of the elevator buttons and orange bottles and nothing but ocean. 

“No.”

And in twenty minutes he’s allowed to go, even though they say he should be monitored through the night. He doesn’t listen, shrugs on his shirt and slips on his shoes. There’s a wad of gauze over the purple bruising in the crook of his arm where the IV was. His hand is wrapped in a thin layer of gauze. 

His fingers are shaking too hard to button his shirt. Michael’s fingers appear in his field of vision, buttoning each button careful and gentle. 

He looks at his shoes. 

And fingers brush against his cheek, and he shudders as warm arms wrap around him and his face presses against Michael’s chest, and he hears nothing but Michael’s heartbeat, feels only Michael’s breath as his chest rises and falls, smells only the one specific detergent Michael swears is best, feels only the soft material of his t-shirt against the bridge of his nose, and sees only stars in his vision.

And he’s trying very hard not to start crying. 

And he blinks. 

And he’s in the subway, leaning a little too much on Michael’s shoulder and they’re arguing about something or other because he can hear Michael say something and he knows his voice stutters out a soft reply but he really doesn’t know what these words mean. 

And he blinks. 

And he’s swaying on his feet, eyes heavy as Michael’s fingers wrap around his waist tightly like deja-vu. 

And he blinks. 

And maybe he was asleep, because he wakes up very much alive and very much wrapped around Michael like an octopus in his own apartment. 

There are two new pill bottles by his bedside and someone new in his bed. 

He blinks. 

He’s in the office. He must have fought for it because Michael looks upset at him. He still isn’t quite sure what happened yesterday, nor does he really want to. 

He just wants to get this show over with. 

He misses the ocean. 

He blinks. 

Dress rehearsal. People are running everywhere and Lorne is giving him this strange look and oh- _oh_ , oh fuck. 

He has to go on. And he knows he’s going to stutter. And it makes his heart race and he knows that’s no good. He breathes in, shaky. 

He says his lines with the best deadpan he can muster and he hopes the makeup team have made him less corpse-like. 

It goes fine. Fine being he only stutters twice. It makes something in his chest hurt and he breathes. It’s fine. Michael’s funny enough for both of them. 

He blinks. 

Showtime.

And when he’s there on live tv he’s only thinking of clear water above him and sand somewhere far below, floating and falling through the sea and waiting for the current. 

And he doesn’t stutter once. 

And the sunlight hits him through the water. 

And he blinks. 

And he’s standing in front of Michael and they’re backstage in the hallway, in a t-shirt and jeans instead of the update suit, so he must have changed. 

Michael is looking at him, really looking at him. And he doesn’t want to blink, doesn’t want to miss this, but he’s floating somewhere far away in a place that’s not his body and he has this feeling that this is something he really really wants to experience. 

_And under the ocean, lungs filled with water, he fights. He fights, he fights, struggling against the current, arms tired but he has to he has to and he’s so close and he’s breaking through the water-_

And Michael’s hand is soft against his jaw, curling around his neck and when their lips are pressed together, soft and firm.

And he doesn’t think he’ll long for the ocean again, because he’s found the sunlight already. 


End file.
